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Ch. 4: School Shooting
Back to The Men in Brown Chris was tired the next day. The gorgeous weather had ended and it was pleasantly cool with a bright warm sun. He was glum all through breakfast. “Any more dreams?” Stephen asked him as they were getting ready. “Yup.” said Chris. “Want to tell me?” “Yeah.” said Chris. “I was staring at a weird hut, straw roof, you know, sunk half in the ground, like something from a period film of the Dark Ages. So much moss grew on the walls I couldn’t see whether they were wood or stone,. Huge trees leaned overhead. The King was speaking to the Seven Sleepers: I couldn’t see the army. I will enter alone, '' he bade them. '' Do not fail to call us at need, Sire, one answered: Amandil, I think. My eyes sort of zoomed in after him, like a walking camera. Inside there was one window. A fireplace, and table. Moss lay thick as dust and the ashes were grown with fungi and damp with moss. No living man had dwelt here. Yet a man stood, an armored warrior with a huge curved sabre in its’ sheath held in his uplifted hands. The visor was down. I guessed it was a suit, like in a museum, but it wasn’t rusty. “And Wayham spoke, but he wasn’t talking to anyone I could see. Where is Matjas? '' he said. ''Where is the holy Matthas? Where is the hope of Hungary? '' And the armour answered, and the voice sounded like it came out of a tomb: ''Do the ants still crawl up the peak of St. Christopher? '' “And Wayham said, ''Yea, but there are few. Where is Matjas? Where is the King Matthias? '' And the armour said: ''Do the ants still crawl over the peak of St. Magdelene? ''And Wayham answered, '' They do, but only twos and threes. Tell me, where is Matjas? Where is the black army? '' “And the armour said a third time, '' Do the ants still crawl up the peak of St. Urh? '' And Wayham answered, ''Not a single ant alive now crawls upon that peak. Tell me how to speak to Matthew. Tell me how to summon him. And the armour said, If the ants are failing, the time is close. Look through the window, if you would Matjas see. Take out my sabre, if Matjaz you would speak. And Wayham looked out of the window, and I could see a big mountain, I think it was named Peca, but nothing else. He took the sabre and drew it an inch out of its’ sheath: the thing was broad, and the blade was all luminous white. There was a violent tremor in the ground, and the earth shook, and far underneath I heard the groaning of the stone. In the window I could see the mountain-face tearing right apart, a ragged gap like ancient jaws opening sideways. Inside there was a dark cave, and inside the cave about a hundred knights in full mail armour with strange and fearsome weapons, seated upon black horses, and weapons and mail were also black. And Wayham drew the sabre half out, and the army’s eyes opened, and blue light flamed in their eyes and in the eyes of their steeds. Then he drew it all the way, and horses neighed, and men readied weapons, and the black army issued from the cave. “You know in dreams you suddenly go from one place to another and it seems quite normal? It happened this time, and we were in the cave, and I thought at first it was the one with that Redbeard emperor because a king was sitting at a stone table with a long beard that pretty much covered it; but the hair was white, and besides the clothing was different, and so was the face. The table had a sort of raised edge, forcing the beard as it grew to coil round and round the table, and Wayham counted with the sabre tip, and it had circled the table no less than nine times. And Matjas spoke, in the sepulchral voice of the armor in the hut:'' Whom art thee? Why draw thou this?'' And Wayham spoke: Thou art King, but I am Overking, Wayham son of Finteine Ancient. I command you. God commands you. Aid us, Matjas, in this hour! And the king got to his feet, and he said, For Our Sweet Lord’s sake do I come to thee, my liege master, with my black army. Let us rise!” '' The bus had pulled up just as he said the last two sentences, forcing Chris to say them very rapidly. Stephen got on the bus, and Chris settled dejectedly back to wait for his own five minutes later. His glum mood didn’t improve when he had to slip past the Cluster Bomb to get to the boys’ room. That was what he called them. A cluster of bigger boys, always in gym shorts, two of them black. They seemed to be eyeing him far more than usual. He closed the partition door and felt a little better. He had just flipped open the lock when he saw them coming in. Christopher clicked the stupid shiny lever closed. Like that was going to help. One tug, he was sure, would pop it right out of its’ socket. He could hear their light, husky, brushy voices, laughing a little. They peered from door to door. They were pausing. He knew they had seen him. They were waiting him out. Two could play at that. He put the lid on the toilet and sat on it, slipping off his backpack. He might be able to swing it. Period bell sounded. Still they hadn’t given up. He could tell from their voices they were getting impatient. One tugged at his door, sharply. Sure enough the handle popped right out. Chris charged, plowing over one boy. But he was small, and there were about six other boys, and in exactly three seconds he was pinned to the floor. “Hey, little dweeb,” said one, “I hear you walked out of class the other day.” “Too queer for you, huh, little ‘phobe? Phobee?” “Yeah, we gays don’t like it when you’re rude. You gotta be inclusive.” “You’re Christian, ain’t you?” “Let’s give him a little poke.” “You nuts, man? What if somebody comes in?” “Then we deal with ‘em. Get his pants down. We’ll make him queer today.” “Yeah, we’re gonna queer you good.” Chris was pinned on his back. Accordingly he was able to see the wall, cinder blocks painted dull locker-room tan, porcelain tiles in the same color going partway up. He was also able to see the said tiles explode inward, making a fist-sized hole, and then the boy tugging at his belt was toppling aside, a huge, preposterous, black arrow with black feathers sticking a foot from his chest and a foot from his back. Like a snake the arrow wriggled out of his wound and shot back of itself up into the air. And into the quiver of the costumed man standing above them. There was a mad scramble as the six boys yet alive got off Christopher and scrabbled up against the wall. The stranger bent down and lifted Chris to his feet. He was, the boy saw, garbed in forest green and brown, strange tunics and jerkins and leggings producing an effect not unlike Strider, heightened by the huge black bow in his left hand. It was a longbow, the ends curving back, wrought of black yew inlaid with silver. Slowly Christopher raised his eyes and looked up into the man’s face. And at once he knew it was no man. The luminous blond hair, the diamond-glittering eyes, the beauty of the strong face— There was a concerted roar as the Cluster Bomb recovered and charged the big stranger. Chris felt a stab of panic. These guys were BIG. Some were on the football team. Others were wrestling pros. They weren’t the only gays in the school, of course; the others tended to be sissy nerds, but these were the worst. The voice of the big stranger sounded, clear and bell-like, not even strained as he moved like lightning. “You are no men.” his voice cut through the roar. “You are no longer even natural. You have sinned against nature. One of the four sins crying out to Heaven for vengeance lies in you.” The last of the big teens dropped to the floor, his head crushed by a single blow of the stranger’s fist. The others sprawled in grotesque attitudes, necks or ribs crushed right in. “Come.” he said. “We have to get you home. There will be no more school for you. They did not do this on their own. The Dragon sent them.” “Who—who are you?” panted Chris as the stranger spread his huge cloak over him and hurried him down the hall. “I am Beleg Strongbow.” he said simply. “And I am of the Men in Brown.” “You’re not a man.” “No,” said Beleg as he herded the boy to a side door, “I am Elven. Now hush. I can defeat sight, but not hearing.” They were silent as they hurried down the hallways of Gilbert High. Beleg paused several times to whip one of the huge black arrows from his quiver and fire it at various random spots of the ceiling. The security cameras, of course. Though if they had already seen them, the cameras were likely linked to a central database and destroying them was futile. At last they were outside. They had had to steer around people who apparently could not see them, but now Beleg picked up Chris as easily as a sack of leaves, and they headed uphill into the pines. “Put me down, I can walk.” protested Chris. “But can you walk without prints, as I can?” the Elf replied. “Can you walk and leave no smell, as I can?” Chris shut up, and the big Elf moved on like a brown ghost through the forest. “What are we going to do now?” Chris asked, when they had gone some ways. “A private tutor would be the best thing, I believe.” said Beleg. “As a matter of fact John Wimbledon arranged to meet your mother at the library and engage her in talk. They’re getting along quite well, he tells me, and if she listens she may get the idea on her own. I hope so. We have one already arranged for both of you.” “Stephen doesn’t Dream.” “But you tell him your Dreams. My companion is fetching him even now: we have watched you for some time, and this attack was not unexpected. I will take you home, but listen to me: '' Do not tell your mother you were in that bathroom. '' Cornello owns the police. There will be a murder investigation, as well as goodness knows how much sob stuff and publicity; and I do not think my shooting of the cameras entirely defeated them. Arheled will have to ask them for their footage. Do you understand? Tell only Stephen.” Chris nodded. “Your mother is a good woman, but not one who understands.” said Beleg softly. “She trusts police. She denies dragons. Be careful with her, and do not burden her with secrets.” Stephen headed down the hall. Children thronged it, an odd rainbow of jumbled colorful shirts, denim blue, bare legs and arms, skirts and backpacks. It was both better and worse in a crowd. Better, because he could blend in. Worse, because his enemies could, too. He knew they were stalking him. The bullies had left him alone before, but today he had seen them standing together and he knew, suddenly and surely, that they were out for him. Mindy had buttonholed him during recess, to his delight, and they had wandered along out by the street, chattering. But Mindy was not here now, and he could not see in the crowd, and might bump into one of Them at any minute. It didn’t help when he got to the classroom, only to realize it was the one Mom wanted him to walk out of. The one where they were teaching about homosexuals. The one where they preached sodomy. “That class is so gay.” Mindy had snorted. He had already gotten to his desk. Usually he was able to hide in a closet or something until it was over, but it looked like today he was going to have to face it. He raised his hand. “I have to go to the bathroom.” he said. “I’m sorry, Stephen, but our records tell us you haven’t attended this class yet, and it’s mandatory for all students now. You’ll just have to cross your legs and wait.” “Mom says I can’t stay for it.” Stephen said flatly. “Well, too bad, honey, your mother isn’t here right now. She sent you here so that you could listen to us teach you, and that’s what I’m going to do. What’s she got against it? Is she Christian?” The sudden acridity in her tone stunned Stephen to the core. “Uh, yeah, yeah we are.” he stammered. “You Christians are the worst homophobes of them all!” she exclaimed. For some reason she had suddenly gotten very agitated; she was red in the face and trying to breathe calmly. “After class you will report to the principal immediately, and I will recommend you for detention! There are a few books I will make sure you read.” Stephen ran out of the room. It was pretty clear-cut. You obeyed your parents. If your teachers were evil, you disobeyed them. But he was really frightened now, because he knew that unless he made it out that door and fled the school forever, he was certain to be persecuted for the rest of the term. He sprinted down the halls till he reached his locker, opening it with frantic hands and hastily stuffing everything in his bag. It was as he was slipping down the now-deserted halls that they caught him. They must have lingered in a broom closet themselves. At any rate, there they were, blocking the aisle. One or two big husky kids; the rest wearing tight jeans like a girl’s and pretty faces, with what even looked like makeup on one boy. And every one of them was wearing something purple. No, not purple. Lavender. “Hey, Christie.” grinned one boy. “Yeah, Christie, little Christian Christie! Hey, come back, little runt! We got something forrrr youuu!” Stephen spun around and broke into a run. He heard them pounding up the hall. They were laughing, like it was baseball or a game of tag or something. But to be It in this game was death. He skidded around a corner. They were catching up. Could he make it to the door in time? He might have a better chance outside. Someone slung a backpack at his legs, and he fell. They caught up, holding him down, laughing gustily. “Give him a little roughing.” “Show some gay love to the little homophobe.” “Yeah, kiss him, Bobbie, before ya show ‘im what we do to Christies around here.” “What the heck?”'' They were reeling and stumbling all around him. Heads flew of themselves off of shoulders. Arms popped off like Lego sets, trailing gross fountains of redness. For a moment Stephen wondered if he was really still asleep, in some incredible nightmare: and then he saw the black sword protruding from the chest of the last boy alive, and the one who bore it. A towering man in dark brown and dark gray-green Ranger-style clothes wiped a huge black sword clean on the nearest body. The edges flashed with a pale light. Grabbing Stephen he hurled open a door and raced down a corridor. “Wh-what’s going on?” panted Stephen. “Cornello has struck.” the man said tersely. His voice was grim and deep. “So we have struck back. You should be thanking me.” “You—you killed them.” “Do you even want to know what they would have done to you?” the man said fiercely. “Christ decreed a punishment for them worse than being dropped into the sea with a stone necklace. I was merciful.” “Who are you? Are you kidnapping me?” The man paused. They were in an old maintenance passage, cement walls stained with damp. A metal grille was in the floor, and the splashing of water sounded from beneath. With a violent wrench the man ripped the bars right out of the cement. “Only to free you.” he answered. “For I am Túrin, son of Húrin,, and I am of the Men in Brown.” He slipped into the drain with a splash. Stephen scrambled in, Túrin helping him down. He was calf-deep in cold stream water, in a small dark tunnel. “This is the only way out of the school after what I have done.” Túrin said. “At all costs their eyes must not see you with me.” Stephen stumbled forward, grasping Túrin’s jacket. The passage seemed to be rough masonry and was so low the big man had to stoop. The floor underfoot was rough, with rounded stones and sandy stretches. They sloshed carefully forwards. All light faded and they stumbled through total blackness, one hand fending off the roof and the other on the wall. Their feet grew numb and ached. It seemed ages before that echoing tunnel changed; cool smooth concrete rose above their heads and they could stand. They seemed to be in a big cement box where sewers joined: were they under the street? Feeling their way around several turns their hands met level stone slabs, and they stooped and reentered the masonry. It seemed to take years. Now and then a patch of light appeared from a street grate, filling the tunnel for a ways on either side with a dim illumination, and the hollow reflections of churning water flickered on the rough red-brown stonework. Now and then they entered cement pipes four and five feet high, the water roaring down the bottom. There were sharp turns and narrow places, and one where the floor descended over rocks. At another place water squirted from the walls and soaked Stephen as he passed through. Then they reached a sharp turn, the tunnel became a pipe six feet high and daylight poured in the far end. Túrin emerged cautiously. “I wondered when you would show.” said Beleg Strongbow’s voice from thin air. He and Chris became suddenly visible. “I have rendered all four of us unseen. I will take us to the house of the boys. Their Glamhoth are already gathering.” he added as sirens wailed by, growling down to a stop close at hand, followed by slamming doors and shouting voices. Police. In total silence they walked across yards and up streets, crossing the old factories that rose in all sorts of strange angles and gables around them, rising like canyons as they meandered through the buildings. At last, to the boys’ great relief, they came to their house, and Beleg softly opened the door. “You will be visible when I close it.” he said. “Fare well for the present, children.” “Wait! Wait!” exclaimed Chris. “Are you, like, from Lord of the Rings?” “No,” said Túrin, “we are from the dead.” Then he and Beleg both vanished. Mom came back home, worried sick, as she’d heard both schools were locked down due to a double massacre. She was so relieved to see them she didn’t question their storuy of utter turmoil and them just running home unnoticed. “It’s just as well.” she said. “There’s so much violence in schools these days…I was talking with a nice old man and he was telling me of gangs that go around tormenting kids who aren’t—um—gay. I hope you haven’t been bothered by them?” “Well…I was cornered in the hallway the other day but a teacher walked by and they ran.” said Chris. “Hey, same thing with me! They were calling me Christie. For Christian.” said Stephen. “And my teacher totally hit the roof when I tried walking out of the queer class. She was fine until I told her I was Christian.” “Really.” said Mom slowly. “I had no idea anti-Christianity is so prevalent these days…I’m so sorry, we should have pulled you out earlier, but I work and we can’t homeschool. John was saying, though, that there’s a man he knows that gives private tutoring, very good references, and he only charges $50 a week! How he makes a living I don’t know, but I’m going to give him a call. His name’s Root. Mr. Van Root. Must be Dutch or something.” Back to The Men in Brown